Into the Lion's Den
by fmapreshwab
Summary: Shawn has never been shy about tempting fate, but this time, as he moves in close to poke one particularly dangerous bear, has he taken a step too far? Mixed metaphors aside, a definite read for Shassie lovers everywhere. Rated for language and themes.
1. Prologue

A/N: I don't own the characters or established plots, but I am in control of this story. Bringing me back from something of a writer's block vacation, updates may be…erratic. Bear with me, and I promise something worthy of your patience.

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><p><strong><span>Prologue: Show No Fear<span>**

Shawn Spencer had spent most of the last 20 years perfecting his perpetual air of nonchalant confidence, to the point that a part of him wondered if he hadn't spent his whole life preparing for this moment. He looked down at himself for a moment, taking a mental inventory. His stomach was in knots, his knees were weak, and he could barely breathe through the tightness in his throat.

_Diagnosis_, Shawn thought wryly, _you're terrified_. Shawn hadn't wasted much of his time lately being scared, which was almost concerning when one considered how often he spent his time around murderers and dead bodies. But as he walked over to what had become the familiar Plexiglas barrier of the SBPD's prisoner visitation area, his jaw and fists clenched.

_Stop fighting it_, Shawn told himself, and the moment he followed his own advice, he felt himself falling into the same old patterns, almost without thought. As he approached the booths, scanning each for a familiar face, his apprehensive frown melted into his trademark absent-minded smile, the tension rolled out of his shoulders, and the pattern of his steps shifted, just slightly, as though he were walking to the tune of a catchy song stuck in his head.

The only thing Shawn had to focus on, as he rounded the corner of the next to last booth, as that horribly familiar face came into view, as his stomach clenched all the tighter and he felt nearly sick, was the slow, methodical pace of his stride. He wanted to walk quickly, to get in and get out as quickly as possible, to spend as little time with the man on the other side of the transparent barrier as he could manage, but it wouldn't do to let the smug bastard know that. Shawn couldn't bear the thought of giving the man any more control over the situation than he already had.

Shawn forced the muscles in his face to cooperate, and his smile widened as he slid comfortably into his chair. He met the man's gaze head on for what seemed like an hour, until the man on the other side of the glass blinked. Shawn counted the exchange as a personal victory.

Shawn could feel the grin he had forced becoming genuine as the man visibly decided to accept what was happening to him. He could tell from the motion of his shoulders that the man had sighed as he rolled his eyes. Shawn almost laughed as the prisoner snatched the phone on his end from its cradle and waited impatiently.

In that moment, some of the tension actually began to drain from Shawn as he realized the reality of the situation. This man, this lowlife, this crazy bastard who had so haunted Shawn's life over the past week and a half, was a prisoner. He was shackled to the chair in which he sat, and if he wanted to so much as speak, he would have to wait for Shawn to pick up the receiver on his end. Hell, Shawn could walk away right now, and the son of a bitch would be led back to a small room with three other men and a very public toilet. He had no control. Over anything. And that was just the way Shawn wanted it.

Shawn smirked again, deciding he had waited long enough. _After all_, he thought, _it's not like I came down here just to stare at him_. The plastic of the phone was cool and, for some reason, sticky, but Shawn tried not to put too much thought into that. He pulled out his biggest, shit-eatingest grin as he lifted it from its cradle with a slightly unnecessary flourish, bringing it slowly, dramatically to his ear. He was rewarded with a disgusted eye roll from the other side of the glass, but Shawn took it as a compliment. He leaned back in his chair, exuding an ease and comfort he still couldn't make himself feel, before greeting the man cordially. "Drimmer."


	2. On a First Name Basis

A/N: Notes I can now give that would have spoiled the surprise in the prologue! This fic is set a week and a half after the end of 3x11, "Lassie Did a Bad, Bad Thing", with spoilers for that episode. Also, cut me a little slack in this chapter, it's hard to write the whirlwind of crazy that makes up a Shawn Spencer one-sided conversation.

I don't own Psych, the characters, the established plot, Clint Eastwood (although, seriously, best idea ever), or the original Hawaii 5-O. I do own the plot of this story.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Lied to, Shot at, Arrested…And on a First Name Basis<strong>

"What do you want, Spencer?" Drimmer's voice was hard and his eyes, though stuck in a petulant glare, were piercing.

Shawn shrugged. He'd definitely gone up against worse, and it was important that Drimmer knew that. "Oh, what, are you still mad? Come on, I only sent you to jail the one time. I've done worse to people! And it's not like nobody would have figured you out if I hadn't gotten involved. They're actually a pretty smart bunch up there, no matter what anybody says. I remember one time, back when I—."

Drimmer interrupted right on cue, which was a relief to Shawn (who had no idea where that story would have gone if he hadn't). "What do you _want_, Spencer?"

"That! That's exactly what I'm talking about! You tried to kill me, I put you away for many, _many_ years…we should at least be on a first name basis!" Drimmer continued to glare without comment. "So we're agreed! You'll call me Shawn, and I'll call you…." Drimmer stared at him through the thin plastic sheet. His glare had lost its fire, but still he said nothing. "Paul," Shawn eventually landed on, then shook his head. "Tim. No…George?" Drimmer continued to watch him silently, but Shawn could just make out the beginnings of an amused glimmer playing out in the man's eyes. "Okay, Chris, be that way. I guess the spirits were wrong and you _don't_ need any visitors, but I made the trip all the way down here from the lobby, so I'm going to hang out if that's okay with you. Oh, and you should know that I'm very good at holding up both ends of a conversation." When Shawn got the reaction he had been expecting, which was to say none at all, he continued. He turned slightly in his chair, as though to speak to someone sitting next to him while still facing Drimmer. "So how _is_ prison? My only frame of reference is old episodes of Hawaii 5-O, and everybody knows you can't compare foreign prisons to American ones."

Shawn turned in his chair, facing the other direction and taking on a more serious expression. He knit his brow, pinched his eyes slightly around the edges, and turned down the corners of his mouth. "Well, Shawn," he started in an admittedly deeper, but noticeably nasal voice, "first of all, Hawaii is in America."

Shawn allowed his face to slip back into its original configuration. He shook his head with a small smile. "Eh, agree to disagree."

As he put his Drimmer-face back on, Shawn ran an eye over Drimmer, taking in everything he could and combining it with what he had already convinced Buzz to tell him. "Anyway, Shawn, I'm technically only in holding right now. I won't be transferred to the state prison until the bi-weekly prisoner transfer at the end of the week. So far it hasn't been that bad, though. The food is better than I thought it would be, and the other prisoners have been surprisingly okay with the fact that I'm a cop—."

"Was a cop," Shawn interrupted himself matter-of-factly. He caught a glimpse of Drimmer as he turned back to resume the other man's side of the conversation, and grinned as he saw just the right amount of shock play out across the man's face.

"Right." Shawn approximated one of Drimmer's frowns as he continued. "I guess I'm worried what will happen when I get to the actual prison."

Shawn snorted at his own assessment of Drimmer's state of mind. "Don't be. The only reason a cop needs to be afraid of prison is if he's facing criminals he helped put away. I've seen your record, Chris. You have nothing to worry about. Seriously, I don't know how nobody noticed you were dirty before all this. In five years, you've made a total of six arrests, and most of them were on racketeering charges, which is extra weird, by the way, since that's not the crime in your job title. What does that even mean, by the way?"

"Nobody knows," Shawn answered in his Drimmer voice. "It's a charge the lawyers invented for bad guys we can't catch actually doing anything bad. It's basically a charge of being criminally creepy."

Shawn nodded sagely. "I always suspected," he intoned, not at all grinning like an idiot. "Hey, so, would it help if I said I was sorry about the whole prison thing?"

"Don't be," Shawn answered himself.

"Oh, I'm not," Shawn corrected himself. "I just wanted to know if you wanted me to say it."

Shawn took pains to make himself look crestfallen as he adopted his Drimmer voice once more. "Oh. I guess I kind of hoped you came down here to tell me that you were wrong about me, that you wanted to try to make things right. I mean, you weren't wrong about me, I belong in here. I did kill two people."

"Not to mention spending your entire career with the police force as an inside ear for a major drug cartel," Shawn supplied helpfully. "Hell, I bet you're responsible for _way_ more than just two deaths. How many cops do you think the Plinkos killed with the information you gave them? How many families lost someone because of you, do you think? Five? Ten? No, you've been doing this for years. Let's assume that only most of the deaths related to the gangs were your fault. That would still put you way over fifty on the dead cop tally." Shawn had, at this point, dropped all pretense and was staring directly at Drimmer. As he had continued, his voice had gone from the joviality involved in one of his games to the accusatory tone he always saved for the criminals he was bringing down. Drimmer met his eye, but Shawn could see that he was beginning to crack. "You know, Chris—."

"You know," Drimmer slammed his open hand down against the surface of the table he sat in front of as he snapped suddenly into the phone, his voice too loud in the small space, "if you were really a psychic, you'd think you could at least get my name right."

At the outburst, Shawn had to stand to motion the guards away. "Oh, I know I've got it wrong." Shawn grinned again, dropping back into the light tone with which he had begun the conversation as he slid back into his seat. "I could tell you that the spirits don't like to be bothered for little things like this, but really, I just want you to have to tell me yourself."

Drimmer sighed. It wasn't much to ask of him, Shawn knew, but he wanted Drimmer to know that he was in no place to hold out. If any of this was going to work, Drimmer would need to know that whatever Shawn asked, he would need answers. If he didn't get that across now, things were going to spiral quickly when he got to the big questions. Or question, really.

"James," Drimmer said at last. "My name is James."

"Really?" Shawn asked in genuine disbelief. "Oh, no, that's terrible. James Drimmer? Jim Drimmer. What kind of parents would do that to a child? Wow, I never thought I'd say this, but it looks like Gus's parents have some competition in the "Terrible Things to do to Your Child before He Can Fight Back" awards. Oh, ew, and I bet people called you the Jimmer in college!" Shawn made a face, wrapping himself wholly in the awful name, trying to push away the real reason he had come down here.

Drimmer's eyes narrowed, until he finally snapped, "Look, it's just James, okay? If you don't like it, you can stick with Drimmer."

"No, and no," Shawn informed him promptly. "Besides, I already know a Jim. Let's take this opportunity to give you a less awful name. How do you feel about Frank?"

Drimmer looked from side to side, as though checking the area around him, before leaning closer to the glass. "I don't have to take this," he whispered into his phone. "I could call a guard right now."

"And be led back to your cell," Shawn continued for him, "where you'll sit, staring at the walls for a few days, until Friday when they come to take you to big boy jail, where you'll sit and stare at the walls for a few _years_. I know I'm the only visitor you've had since you were arrested that wasn't pressing you for information about your gang connections. More importantly, I know that all you want right now is a distraction from this little taste of what the next twenty years of your life are going to be." Shawn had nothing to base this on but Clint Eastwood movies, but he felt it was a safe guess. "And I know that you have no idea why I'm really here, and that bothers you."

Drimmer stared down at Shawn for a long minute, straightening in his chair to his full, slightly impressive Shawn had to admit, height. "You know, Spencer—."

"Shawn," the psychic corrected good-naturedly, "we talked about this."

Drimmer continued, ignoring the interruption. "I had my doubts about you for a long time. I mean, sure, you cleared cases. It didn't seem to matter what the case was; you were put on it and you cleared it, which is impressive. And, yeah, almost everybody up there," he said, lifting his eyes to the ceiling, "believes you are what you say you are, but something about you always bugged me. Now…I don't know. I'm starting to wonder." Drimmer sat back against the chair. "Psychic or no, you've got me pegged this time, I'll admit it. I want to know what's going on, and I guess I don't mind the company." This last was accompanied by a look that Shawn was fairly certain implied the opposite. Then Drimmer cut to the heart of things with the $64,000 question. "So why are you here?"

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><p>If you're as curious as Drimmer as to why Shawn's come a-callin', you'll have to wait until next time to find out. But I do want to thank everyone for the reception this story has received so far.<p>

Before you go around accusing people of being criminally creepy, you should know that, no, I don't actually know what racketeering is.


	3. Broken Trust and a Bottle of Scotch

A/N: Starting off with a major apology for the ridiculous time gap, but it's been a weird time around the ol' computer lately. Also, I know what I said last time, but oh-em-gee, time warp! The majority of this chapter (although pretty self-explanatory) is set during one of the final scenes of 3x11, "Lassie Did a Bad, Bad Thing", with spoilers for that episode.

I don't own Psych, the characters, or the established plot. But things wouldn't be too drastically different if I did, I like to think.

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: Broken Trust and a Bottle of Scotch<strong>

"Why are you here, Shawn?" Drimmer's eyes narrowed as he asked the question, his face shifting from cautious to curious, but Shawn only took that in as habit. The question was echoing in his head, taking him back to the night this mess had started.

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><p>"Why are you here, Shawn?" Lassie stood in his doorway, the light of the living room spilling out into the dark night. Most other nights, Shawn might have been annoyed at the question, but this was not most nights. Tonight, Shawn and Lassie had been held at gunpoint. Tonight, they had been separated and interrogated by their friends. Tonight, Gus had insisted on driving Shawn home, and Shawn had had to wait nearly two hours, trying to avoid any awkward situations with crime scene stragglers, before catching a bus back to Lassie's.<p>

And now it was two in the morning, and Lassie was still awake. Despite the annoyed protestation, Shawn knew the detective had been waiting for him, and he only wished, for both their sakes, that he had gotten there sooner.

Far from the action hero he had only an hour ago resembled, the Carlton Lassiter who obediently opened the door at Shawn's knock was worn and tired. His face was drawn and his skin was pale, but Shawn wasn't truly worried until he heard the dull, flat voice, devoid of all snap, snark and personality.

"Why am I ever here?" Shawn asked, passing Lassie by as he entered the house. "For the view." Lassiter was silent a long moment before he pulled the door closed. When he turned, Shawn took a long look at the empty eyes and shuddered. "Lassie, are you…are you okay?"

Shawn had thought that the cloud of sulk that Lassie had been living under lately would dissipate when he was proved innocent. Even better, he had gotten to save the day, something Shawn knew Lassie not-so-secretly lived for. Shawn had thought that this, if not going on record as the _best_ day ever, would at least cheer the dour man up to pre-"IA investigation" levels. Sure, _Shawn_ had gone out of his mind for a few minutes after Gus had dropped him off at his apartment, but he was less used to the "gun in your face" brand of law enforcement that Lassie seemed not just to accept as part of his chosen life, but to love.

Yet here stood a man before him seemingly more depressed than when Shawn had dropped him off at Henry's, something he was still feeling guilty over. It had been Gus's idea, and it had been necessary but Lassie had needed him, had come to him for help, for support, and he had pawned the poor man off on Henry. _No man should ever have to turn to Henry for comfort_, Shawn thought, annoyed with himself for having agreed to it. Shawn had been on the receiving end of enough condescending speeches and awkward shoulder pats to know.

Lassiter sighed, staring into the middle distance, apparently grappling with a fairly routine question. After a moment of watching the mighty struggle play out across Lassie's face, Shawn cleared his throat. The detective seemed to fall back into reality at the sound, his eyes snapping back into focus. Shawn grinned under Lassiter's stare, trying to lighten the mood. He strode casually into the living room, throwing himself into the nearest chair that didn't face the couch on which they had so recently been held at gunpoint, saying "Why the long Lassieface? We won, remember?" Shawn mimicked the motion of a gun in his hand, aiming for the spot on which Drimmer had stood.

"Yeah, one of the men entrusted with the city's safety, a man other cops trusted with their lives every day for the last five years, turns out to be a drug dealer. Banner day for our fair city," Lassiter said dryly, rolling his eyes.

Lassie disappeared for a moment into the kitchen, forcing Shawn to call out his next attempt at encouragement. "Hey, no one thinks you're a murderer anymore."

"Anymore," Lassiter repeated flatly, entering the living room from behind Shawn and setting a beer down on the low coffee table in front of him. Shawn didn't have to look up at Lassiter as the detective settled next to him on the large arm of the chair to know that he carried a half-empty bottle of scotch and a small glass for himself. Just as he didn't have to ask to know that, had he been alone, Lassie would have foregone the glass.

"But they all did. McNabb, the chief, even O'Hara." Shawn could tell from his voice that Lassie was straining to cover the hurt his tone nonetheless carried. As he leaned forward to grab the beer on the table, Shawn let one hand settle on Lassiter's knee, squeezing gently in what he hoped was a comforting manner. "The way they looked at me," Lassiter continued, his eyes glued to the far wall, "it was like they weren't even surprised, like she'd been waiting for something like this to happen, been waiting for me to do something like this, all along."

Shawn wasn't sure which 'she' Lassie had meant, but he hoped it was the chief. Jules was Lassie's partner, after all, and Shawn knew it would kill the detective to think she didn't trust him. Lassiter shrugged, his eyes dull. "I guess I just don't feel like we won anything more important that what we lost."

"All that matters," Shawn said, running his hand further up Lassiter's thigh, "is that they were wrong. All of them."

"Almost all of them," Lassiter corrected, leaning down to kiss the top of Shawn's head lightly. "You never doubted me, did you?"

"I'm your boyfriend," Shawn said flippantly. "It's my job to believe you, no matter what." Shawn realized he had said the wrong thing as he felt Lassie stiffen next to him. He brought his feet up under him on the chair, rationalizing an emergency exception to the "no shoes on the furniture" rule as he launched himself partway up to claim Lassie's lips, effectively silencing any protest. "I would have known you were innocent anyway," he said as he pulled back.

For the first time that night, Lassiter's eyes lit up and his posture relaxed. He allowed his body to fall bonelessly against Shawn, his head resting on the psychic's shoulder. "Love you, Spencer," Lassie said in what Shawn was sure he thought was a charmingly gruff voice. It came out more as a growl, but it was a growl, among so many other things about the detective, that Shawn had quickly learned to love.

"Love you, too, Lassieboy."

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><p>Later that night, as the two lay in bed, Lassiter pretending they weren't ten feet straight above the spot where they had both almost died mere hours before, Shawn wondering why they never slept at his place, Lassiter shifted to face Shawn. "You know what still bothers me?" he asked softly, as though he was afraid to even have the conversation.<p>

"Of course I do," Shawn said, bringing one hand to his temple.

"Stop that," Lassiter snapped, bringing a grin to Shawn's lips.

"You want to know how much Drimmer really knows," he said seriously, threading his fingers through Lassiter's. Drimmer's "suicide note" had been packed up and taken away with everything else related to the evening's activities, but it had hung heavily over both of them all night. "We'll figure it out," Shawn said, squeezing the other man's hand reassuringly. "Don't worry." Shawn went to sleep that night hoping Lassie believed him more than he believed himself.

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><p>More to come soon, I should hope (let's face it, probly after finals are over), but until then, enjoy the Shassie adorability.<p> 


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